


Inebriate

by tastewithouttalent



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Dom/sub Undertones, First Kiss, First Time, Hand Jobs, Inline with canon, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Rough Sex, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-02
Updated: 2018-08-02
Packaged: 2019-06-11 10:42:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15313737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: "Angelo walked through the door with no hesitation, with no warning, with no more greeting to offer than the simple fact of his presence, and Corteo had felt it like a painless blow shattering all the structure of the life he had carved out for himself at once." Angelo comes back into Corteo's life, and Corteo gives everything he has to offer.





	Inebriate

Angelo isn’t gentle.

He would have been, before. Corteo has spent seven years haunted by the ghost of the boy-that-was, by sad eyes and lost smiles and that arresting, startling focus that always pulled him out of himself and forward into whatever Angelo wanted of him, into wherever Angelo saw them. He’s had more than enough time to sketch out the details of imagination, to fill in the shadows and the possibilities of the future they could have had, if Angelo had stayed; Corteo knows how it would have been, as the years pressed their lives closer together, as hands strayed from sides to clasp at the warmth of someone else’s presence, as they interlaced their existences within the home they could have shared, in another life.

Corteo is electrified by Angelo’s return. He walked through the door with no hesitation, with no warning, with no more greeting to offer than the simple fact of his presence, and Corteo had felt it like a painless blow shattering all the structure of the life he had carved out for himself at once. The sadness is gone, now, the pain in those eyes stripped away or buried so deep there’s nothing but the heavy weight of determination born from the ashes of loss; but the focus is still there, clearer now than Corteo has ever seen it before, hardened and sharpened bright as a diamond, deadly as a bullet, sweeping aside the whole structure of Corteo’s life and dragging him into something else before Corteo can even blink his eyes into focus on their trajectory.

Angelo kisses him over the letter. Corteo is still staring at the paper in his hands, his fingers trembling with horror and shock and a slow tide of rising panic as his mind struggles to comprehend the basic meaning of the words set swimming in his vision by the fear in him. He feels like gravity has fallen out from under him, as if Angelo has stepped in to knock the floor from under his feet and show him the yawning chasm of danger that lies beneath him, and Corteo’s voice is stolen by the look in Angelo’s eyes, by the determination he has remembered with such warmth for so many years. There will be no turning that aside, no drawing Angelo from whatever path this letter has set him on; and it’s in the midst of that, as Corteo gazes wide-eyed at the paper and feels his heart stutter on the impossible fear of the future now coming for them, that Angelo’s hand catches at his chin and turns his head up and away from the paper. Corteo turns, made passive and compliant by the grip of fright as much as anything else, and Angelo’s mouth is on him at once, the heat pressing hard against his lips before Corteo has time to understand what’s happening. It’s enough to shake him out of that spreading horror, to startle away fear with the simplicity of disbelieving shock; and then Angelo’s hands push at his shoulders, and Angelo’s tongue drags at his mouth, and Corteo is shutting his eyes and giving way as the letter falls from his hand to flutter to the surface of the table alongside them.

There is no hesitation. Corteo is undone from that first kiss, from the first contact of Angelo’s mouth on his; maybe he was doomed the moment the door came open and Angelo stepped back into the space Corteo has kept empty for him all these years. But Angelo pushes, and pulls, and takes, and Corteo gives, and gives, and gives, the heat of his mouth and the cover of his clothing and the tension of his body, too, when Angelo asks for it with slick fingers that force as much as coax. If it were someone else, Corteo thinks, he might protest, might push back, might find something in him that could hold itself strong against the overwhelming force crushing over him; but he’s smoothed his own path to surrender with too many fantasies all on his own, until when Angelo pushes against him Corteo opens to the other before he can think, following the trajectory he’s created for himself with breathless willingness. Angelo has two fingers in him before Corteo can grasp the thought in full that Angelo is touching him, that Angelo is taking him, that Angelo _wants_ him, and when he whimpers a sound of helpless shock it’s Angelo’s mouth crushing to his that stifles it in his throat.

Angelo moves with the focus of a man possessed. Corteo melts before him, giving way to everything Angelo’s fingers and mouth and body demand of him as quickly as they are asked; and yet still Angelo’s breathing runs rough on strain, on tension as if of an unbearable delay even as his fingers stroke deep into Corteo’s body to urge the other open. There’s something of fury in his throat, some fiery need that goes beyond the simple satisfaction of physical relief, something so intense that Corteo can’t tell if Angelo’s eyes are burning with the hard chill of determination or glazing with the fog of long-withheld tears. All he knows is that Angelo is taking him, without words, without explanation, as if he’s seeing the whole surrender of Corteo’s years of pining want from a mere glance at the other’s face, until Corteo wishes for something more substantial than glass to hide behind even as he gazes up into the nighttime black of Angelo’s eyes watching him and feels his throat working on pleasure as much in the surrender as in the receiving.

Angelo turns him over, when he’s ready. Corteo can’t make the decision himself -- it’s been no time at all, hardly enough minutes for his cock to harden from the startled softness he was still caught in when Angelo stripped his clothes from him, but the weight of years hangs in the space between them to fill all the gaps of Angelo’s ghosts with those gentler phantasms of Corteo’s making. Either way Corteo is panting with strain by the time Angelo rocks onto his heels and catches a hand at his hip to push him over, and when he falls onto the bed beneath him he can’t help the tiny, helpless jerk of his hips to grind against the rough texture of the sheets, as if to ground himself to the reality that has stepped through his door and upended his life. Behind him there’s the sound of metal clicking, the drag of Angelo’s belt giving way and his pants coming undone for the work of his hands; Corteo ducks his head down against the sheets beneath him, pressing his forehead hard against the thin blankets and breathing deep lungfuls of air as if the simple addition of oxygen is likely to offer what he needs to ground himself to the fact of this happening instead of just the fantasy of it. He’s on his knees on his bed, the sheets catching against his bare skin and his arms pinned awkwardly beneath his chest; his glasses are off-center on his face, so misaligned he can’t see through them even when he blinks his eyes open. His skin is hot, flushed with adrenaline and nerves and embarrassment and sticky with sweat that is holding the sheets to his stomach, and his hair to his neck, and the inside of his thighs close to each other; and then the bed shifts, a hand wraps at his hip, and Corteo is drawn backwards over his knees in an arc of motion somewhere between voluntary and urged. His cock dips in the air, hot with its willingness to believe what’s happening even if his mind is still struggling, and against the inside of his leg there’s the press of contact, the drag of cloth as Angelo’s knee urges Corteo’s shins apart. Corteo’s knees angle wider, slipping over the bed to lower his hips by an inch and leave the whole of his body shockingly, embarrassingly exposed, but there is no time to tense himself into self-consciousness because Angelo’s knees are pressing into the bed, and Angelo’s hands are clutching to brace at Corteo’s hips, and Angelo’s cock is sliding in to press and penetrate the give of Corteo’s body.

They come together at once. The friction is blinding, the heat of it flaring sharp enough that Corteo’s wide-open eyes flicker to white for a moment, as if caught in the burst of a camera bulb to steal the sight of the bed before him; there’s a sound in his throat, something of a yelp of shock and a groan of sensation as Angelo’s hips buck forward to drive into him all at once. There’s no time to adjust, no time even to think: just the act, like flipping a switch, and then Angelo is inside him and Corteo is being taken, the innocence of virginity swept aside in that one sharp thrust of Angelo’s body behind him. Corteo’s whole body feels hot, strained, like the friction of that abrupt intrusion is expanding to demand space for itself alongside the shift of his breathing and the structure of his bones; but while he is gasping against the sheets Angelo is filling his lungs with a dragging inhale and drawing back to thrust forward again. Corteo’s shoulders flex helplessly, his fingers catch and clutch at the sheets under him, and then Angelo is moving and Corteo is holding onto the sheets, the frame, the wall, anything he can find to steady himself against the overwhelming, all-encompassing force of Angelo acting on and in and over him.

It feels like burning. There’s an ache to the motion, a pressure that pulls and drags against Corteo with something that might be pain, that he thinks he will be carrying as a secret within him for days to come; but his cock is still hard, painfully so, throbbing at his hips with every beat of his heart and every movement of Angelo’s body over him. Corteo keeps thinking about the way they must look, about Angelo leaning in over him, his body tense with the desire he’s working into Corteo beneath him, his endless-dark eyes fixed on the sweep of Corteo’s hair or the sweat trickling down the dip of his spine, and Corteo can feel the awareness of it flare in him like alcohol evaporating off his tongue, kicking back to knock him out of himself and into someone else, into the framework of a childhood lit by a flickering flame and the press of fingers as certain in snuffing it as they are now in pressing bruises to his hips. Corteo is gasping with every inhale, his breath whimpering in his throat with a heat he can’t restrain any more than he can fight back, and still Angelo is moving over him, bucking forward with a force behind his movement that is so much as to be nearly vicious in each slick stroke of their bodies coming together.

Corteo fists his hands into the sheets, clinging to the thin fabric as if it will be tether enough to hold him to reality, as if it can possibly stand against the unhesitating certainty in Angelo’s eyes, under Angelo’s movements. He has to shut his eyes to find speech at his lips, and even when he manages to force the rasp of his breathing into words they come out cracked, spilling around the forward movement of Angelo thrusting up and into him. “An--Angelo, I.” Angelo’s hips jerk forward, his cock sinks far into Corteo’s body; Corteo sobs over a breath, not sure if it’s reprieve or indulgence he’s pleading for. “ _Angelo_.”

Angelo’s breath spills into a huff, the sound of it clear even over the creak of the bed, the hiss of Corteo’s breathing, the slick wet of their skin pressing together. “Corteo,” he says, careful over the syllables like he’s relearning the shape of them, as if he’s testing his footing on an unsteady path. His shoulders tip forward over Corteo’s angled back; the hem of his shirt brushes at the back of Corteo’s hips to catch and cling to the sweat caught between them.

“I’m going to win,” Angelo says, speaking softly like he’s whispering the words to the back of Corteo’s neck, and Corteo’s skin goes hot and cold at one at the same time. He shudders with force, his whole body seizing tight with the adrenaline of fear and want together that grip him, and Angelo breathes an exhale like the ghost of a long-dead laugh and lets one of his hands at Corteo’s hip loosen. “I’m going to get my revenge, Corteo.” His fingers slide free, his hand drops down, and Corteo sets his jaw and tries to hold himself together as Angelo’s grip slides in to brace tight around him. It’s only that, he thinks, that keeps him from coming just from the first press of contact, and Angelo no sooner tightens his hold than he’s stroking, working up across Corteo’s length with the same intent focus he’s bringing to fucking the other down into the narrow bed.

“I’m going to ruin them,” Angelo says, murmuring the words like an endearment against the back of Corteo’s neck, purring the sound of them into more heat than Corteo has heard on his voice since he walked through the door. Corteo can’t breathe, he feels like he’s suffocating, like he’s burning, as if he’s a candle burning itself to ash under the too-much heat of Angelo’s touch, voice, use; but it’s want on his tongue, the sound of a drunkard begging for a last desperate sip, and he can feel his back curving to press against Angelo’s chest, can feel his heartbeat fluttering in his chest and thrumming all the way down in the depths of his stomach.

“I’m going to kill them all” and Angelo’s voice is rising, now, tense and straining in time with the flex of his thighs, the pulse of his cock, the pounding of his heartbeat. “I’m going to kill every one of them.” His wrist flexes, his fingers stroke; Corteo’s chest strains, Corteo’s mouth comes open on voiceless need.

“I can do it,” Angelo says, breathing the words as if they’re a prayer to Corteo’s skin, an endearment layering itself against the length of his spine. “With you, Corteo.” Corteo feels himself drawn tense, strained to the breaking point, want and fear and desire and terror and love all knotting themselves at his throat, in his stomach, against the length of his spine. Angelo’s head shifts, his mouth presses open against the back of Corteo’s neck to pin a few strands of hair to the other’s skin.

“Together,” Angelo says; and his hand pulls, and Corteo spasms with his release, quaking himself into helpless relief as Angelo strips the pleasure from him to lay it in lines of sticky white over the sheets. He pulls with intent, milking Corteo dry until relief is twisting to pain, until pleasure is flaring to hurt; and then he lets his hold go without being told, and he sets his hand back into place at Corteo’s hip again. Corteo opens his eyes, fighting back the sense of the world spinning around him with the focus of his eyes on the leg of one of the chairs at the table, the one shoved back in Angelo’s first unhesitating rush at him. The frame of his glasses cuts through his vision in a dark line, bisecting focus from blurry myopia; Corteo’s eyes fix on that, dropping everything else out of interest but the familiar dark of the frame. He can see the curve of it, the shape of it meant to fit to his face but pushed up, now, by his awkward position; he’s still staring at it when Angelo’s voice over him breaks, whimpering to a high plea as of the child he once was, and his hips stutter to still as he spends his own pleasure inside Corteo beneath him.

Neither of them move for a moment. Angelo is tipped in far over Corteo’s bare shoulders, his breathing dragging in his throat as he holds himself up over the other; Corteo’s legs are thrumming with heat, his back aching from strain. He shifts his knee back, carefully, trying to get a better position for the tension at the inside of his thighs, or maybe for the weight bearing down against his spine, and behind him Angelo gusts a sigh like he’s giving up all the air in his body and cants forward, his shoulders dropping down to press him close against the sweat-slick of Corteo’s back. The weight of his head presses to Corteo’s shoulder, his mouth skim Corteo’s skin, and Corteo goes still again, as if frozen in place by the spill of Angelo’s breathing against his body.

“I’m going to do it,” Angelo says, softly. There’s no tension in the sound, none of the vicious edge that was there before; this sounds like a promise, like a vow, something made in the space of his own head and granted voice more by accident than intent. Corteo’s skin prickles, a shiver coursing down his spine in answer, and Angelo breathes in against him like he’s tasting the other’s reaction. His lips shift, his mouth draws warmth over Corteo’s skin; maybe a name, maybe the shape of open vowels on his tongue, maybe just the idle movement of affection. Corteo stares at the room before him, the trappings of the life he has had, the simplicity of his day-to-day existence, his carefully laid plans for his future; and then he takes a breath, and he shuts his eyes, and he lets Angelo pull him down into the darkness with him.


End file.
